The sting

It starts out innocently enough.

I am usually congratulating myself for following a routine.

Feeling success in my own complacence.

Building a wall that separates who I think I am from the damage that I cause.

Then I do the exact thing that causes disaster, as if I had been planning it for months.

I do something I had promised mere hours ago to never do again.

I am listening.

I am really trying to listen.

I really thought I heard it.

But in truth, it takes an ice pick to chip away my wall, so I can hear and register what is being said to me.

 

Then I am exposed and the truth stings like the hard flick of a wet towel on a baby’s cheek:

The person I love the most is choosing to have his life destroyed by me. That is not only his conscious choice for the future, but that is what I am doing to him now.

I can’t stand to be inside myself and I tell him to leave me, to let the world scoop me up and put me elsewhere. For him to start over and be happy.

But (thank God) he won’t. He stays and I feel guilty that I am happy that he chooses to continue to suffer. I wish that HD could impact only me and realize that most of the time I am under the misapprehension that it does. Only occasionally does my wall of denial crack sufficiently to let in the truth. The disease will suck me back to oblivion before too long. The lack of awareness that is part of HD will return and I won’t realize what I am doing to the love of my life. To the most important relationship I’ve ever had. And it won’t sting anymore because I won’t remember.

But I’ll keep hurting him, just the same.

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